The last two days of my father's life
he mumbled to himself over the hiss
of the oxygen tank.
Eyelids lowered like windowshades,
pulled tight against that encroaching storm.
It's possible he was talking to angels,
messengers from another world come to claim him.
Perhaps old ghosts from his past, but
I'd like to think, at least part of that time,
he was recalling how my mother's hair
moved in the breeze when he first met her,
how pleased he was on the day
I crooned 'da da', the taste of fried green tomatoes
shared round our table late on a fall evening.
At the end of the second day,
I lay my head on his chest,
strained for one last glimpse into his eyes.
The shade finally fluttered.
For that second,
that one halleluja chorus second,
he saw me.
A tear slid down his cheek to my hand.
A baptism of sorts.
A blessing of our time here on earth together.